The Traveler
by Shaeya Sedjet
Summary: As Sherlock and John are returning from a crime scene, John is pickpocketed by a young Traveler.  Instead of pressing charges, Sherlock offers her a job.  Set post-series.


**Disclaimer:** I own nothing. Sherlock and John are the brainchildren of Mark Gatiss and Steven Moffat. No infringement is intended. I just wanted to bend them to my will and force them to live out my homo-erotic fantasies. Just kidding. Maybe.

**The Traveler**

**Chapter One**

Aoife Donnelly studied the body language and open face of her next mark. He was a short, stocky man with sandy-golden hair and an unassuming presence. He was distracted by his companion—a beautiful man, tall and slender with a mop of dark curls and flawless alabaster skin. She could use the smaller man's preoccupation with the taller to her advantage and casually bump into him. She would be charming, bat her eyes, caress his arm to reassure him that no harm was done. It would be the easiest pocket she'd picked all day. Or so she thought.

A former army surgeon and the world's only consulting detective were headed home from a crime scene one crisp, sunny afternoon. It was rush hour and the apartment in which the murder/suicide had taken place was not far from Baker Street, so they'd decided on walking instead of incurring the outrageous cab fare. Well, John had decided. Sherlock was complaining that he had more than enough money to cover the cab fare home.

'Sherlock, it's a lovely afternoon and the fresh air certainly wouldn't do either of us any harm.' He was momentarily way-laid as a small girl with wild auburn curls bumped his shoulder as she was passing in the opposite direction. 'Oh, dear! So sorry!'

The girl looked up at him, smiling brilliantly and gently touched his arm. 'Not at all. It was my fault entirely! My head's somewhere else today.'

'We all have those days, don't we?' John replied, entirely charmed by the tiny thing with the large golden eyes, skin like fresh cream and strawberries, and a musical Irish lilt to her voice.

'Don't I know it? I'd better be off. I apologize, again!' She turned, hair whipping around her like a banner, and started off in the direction she'd been heading when she collided with John.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, reaching out and catching the girl's wrist in an iron grip and forcing her to face him. He completely ignored John's indignant 'Sherlock!' and leveled the girl with a steely gaze. 'I think you have something that belongs to my friend. I would appreciate if you would return his wallet.' He stated clinically, quicksilver eyes narrowed dangerously.

John's eyes widened as he checked his jacket pocket. Sherlock was right. His wallet was missing. He'd been so distracted by the pretty little thing that he couldn't be bothered to notice she was robbing him blind. He would never hear the end of this.

The girl blinked up at him, momentarily thrown off-guard by his direct accusation. Then, her instincts seemed to return to her. 'Must have the wrong girl!' She chirped in her charming Irish brogue. She winked, blew him a kiss and whirled, taking advantage of his momentary surprise at her cheek, and bolted.

Sherlock's eyes narrowed into dangerous slits, and he gave chase. The nerve! As if he, Sherlock Bloody Holmes would ever be wrong about this sort of thing.

'Sherlock!' came John's surprised shout, but the detective was already diving through the crowd in hot pursuit of the girl who had just nicked the doctor's wallet. 'Lovely,' he muttered plunging in after them, stammering apologies to the pedestrians being shoved aside by Sherlock in his pursuit of the pickpocket.

Aoife could hear the commotion behind her and knew that her victim's companion was hot on her heels. Well, that was wholly unexpected! She had chosen the fair haired, kind-faced man as her mark because he'd appeared to be open and unassuming. She should have paid more attention to his friend. That one had eyes like a falcon!

Aoife's searching gaze found a narrow opening between two buildings and she ducked quickly into it. She took a moment to catch her breath as she heard two sets of footsteps thundering past her hidey-hole. She waited a few moments before following the alley until it forced her to turn right. As she did, she collided with a solid, warm body and found herself caught against a delicious smelling chest. She looked up into those same quicksilver eyes, narrowed in irritation.

'Was this really necessary? You're good, but you're not that good,' rumbled the deep baritone voice of her captor. He towered over her, a dark, avenging angel. She began to struggle, but one of his arms held her in an iron grip while the other slipped into her back pocket to retrieve the wallet she'd filched. 'John, your wallet.' He offered it over his shoulder, not taking his eyes off her. It seemed he saw everything with those incredible eyes.

Her eyes narrowed. 'Who are you?' she demanded.

Sherlock saw the gears turning in her head. This one was bright; this one was clever; this one could be useful. 'I'm a detective.'

The girl rolled her eyes. 'If you were a detective, you would have flashed your badge and had me in handcuffs already. So, tell me, who are you really?'

'Clever, indeed,' he murmured as if finishing a thought out loud, momentarily distracted. Then, with focused intensity, 'You are young, but not as young as you appear. Not many people would take the time to notice, because most people are dull and completely useless.'

'Oh, here we go,' John muttered. 'Sherlock, I have the wallet, everything is in it. Just let the girl go and let's be on our way.'

'You're Irish—a Traveler—but have tried very hard to hide the dialect. You don't have any family, or you wouldn't be operating on your own. You certainly wouldn't have been cornered in a dark alley by two strange men by yourself if this were a family operation.' At this, her face went stone cold with no hint of emotion. 'You are clever, perceptive. Most people would be astonished or in awe of my abilities and considerable intellect, but you are trying to figure out who I am and what I might know about your family's disappearance. And they did disappear. There one moment, gone the next.

'Travelers tend to stick to more rural areas, only coming into the large metropolitan cities to work their cons, but here you are in the largest city on the continent. You are searching for leads and picking pockets to stay alive. By the state of your hair and clothes, you are managing to pick enough pockets and run enough cons that you can afford to stay in hostiles, or perhaps cheap hotels. My money is on hostiles. Not as strict, and they don't keep the best records of their visitors.'

'How do you know this? You haven't been following me. I would have noticed.'

John squeezed around Sherlock. 'It's what he does. It's in the job description when you're the world's only consulting detective. Sherlock, let her go,' he murmured, gently prying her out of the detective's arms. He focused his full attention on the girl with the wild, auburn curls. 'What is your name?' the smaller, stockier man asked.

This man she could trust. This man had a kind soul—she could see it in his hazel eyes. 'Aoife. Aoife Donnelly.'

John opened his mouth to ask her another question, but the lanky detective interrupted. 'Aoife, I have a business proposal for you.'

She turned her eyes away from the man he had called "John," her eyes narrowing suspiciously.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, 'Nothing like that. Honestly! You common people are so pedestrian."

'Keep runnin' that pretty mouth of yours, and I'll give it a smack,' she growled.

John coughed into his fist to cover his laughter, and Aoife liked him all the more for it.

'If you're done threatening me, I would like you to look at John and tell me what you see,' he commanded, taking her by the shoulders and turning her toward the stockier man.

For a moment, she wasn't sure what he wanted from her, but she remembered how he had been able to tell everything about her from her appearance and the way she spoke. She studied the smaller man intensely for a moment. "Erect posture, tends to stands at parade rest. Military. One shoulder resists parade rest position and pulls forward noticeably more than the other. Possible war-wound.' She smiled at John as his eyes widened, darting to Sherlock and knew that she had hit the nail on the head.

'He has kind eyes and an honest face. He doesn't know why you choose to keep him around and doesn't understand what you could possibly see in him. Frankly, I don't know how he puts up with you, but he does and has for quite some time.' She looked over her shoulder and into Sherlock's quicksilver gaze, 'And he's besotted with you.' At her last comment, John blushed brilliantly, eyes downcast. 'That's perfectly fine, though, because you're just as over the moon for him as he is for you. Rings. Wedding bands.' She gestured to John's hand, then to Sherlock's.

Sherlock whipped her around to face him, cupping her face in his large musician's hands. The rough fingertips of one hand were a stark contrast to the soft fingertips of the other. 'You are a musician,' she mused. 'You play a stringed instrument, the cello, or perhaps the violin. A guitar would be too "pedestrian."' She smirked.

'You come from money. Old money. Possibly aristocracy. Not these posh wannabes running around putting on airs.

'You are clinical, detached. You see the world differently than anyone else, and you've suffered for it. Until him.' The detective's gaze was burning into her, and she cleared her throat, obviously uncomfortable. 'I think I'd like to stop there. I don't think you meant me to see that last part, and the rest is too personal. I'll leave it for him to suss out.' she murmured, tipping her head in John's direction.

While Sherlock was a bit thrown by her brief, yet accurate assessment of his character, he was also perversely pleased that he'd found another person with a mind for observation. 'Oh, you _are_ clever! I think I'll keep you. John, I'd like to keep her!" His manic eyes gleamed, and Aoife could understand why the ex-military man was drawn to this mad man.

'Sherlock! You can't just _keep_ her as if she were a pet. There's a word for that. It's called kidnapping.'

Sherlock rolled his eyes, 'John, don't be dull. I'm not going to kidnap her.' His gaze travelled back to Aoife, allowing his hands to drop to her shoulders. 'I would, however, like to offer you a job. I want you to work for me. _Observe_ for me. John is brilliant in the field, but not always available when a case comes up. Having a second better than average mind and a keen set of eyes at hand would be greatly beneficial. Do this for me, and I will help you find your family.'

Aoife considered this for a moment. She'd heard of a Sherlock Holmes and Doctor John Watson. This could be no coincidence. How many people were running about London with a name like Sherlock? If this nutter was who he claimed to be, it would definitely be worth getting to know him. He could be a valuable resource in the search for her parents and her brother.

'I need some time to think it over.'

Sherlock scoffed, 'Why?' he asked incredulously.

'Because it's not every day a girl is cornered by two strange men in a dark alley and offered a legitimate business proposition.'

The detective sighed, seeming very put out. 'Very well. At least you have some common sense and a modicum of self-preservation. When I invited John to become my flatmate, he let me drag him to a crime scene and was moved in the same day.'

Aoife turned her incredulous gaze to John.

He merely shrugged, 'He has that effect on people. Take as much time as you need, but he always gets what he wants.'

Sherlock preened as if being coddled and outright spoiled was a good thing. 'Oh! There is a flat just below ours. It would need renovating, but you could stay in our spare room until it is finished.' She opened her mouth to object, 'No need to worry about the money. When you accept my offer—and you will—I will cover all expenses. You will be under my employ, after all.' He reached into the pocket of his heavy, wool coat and handed her a business card. 'My mobile number is on there as well as my website and John's blog. If you wish to research us, that would be the best place to start.'

The tall, beautiful man with a mop of messy curls turned to the much smaller, handsome blonde. 'Shall, we?'

'I think it would be best. You've terrorized enough people today.'

The detective put his arm around the ex-military man and proceeded to guide him out of the alley. 'Most of the terrorizing would not have been necessary if you would be more observant, John,' he chided.

'Oy! You could have warned me I was being pickpocketed!'

'I assumed you would notice that you were being robbed in broad daylight.'

The couple's good-natured bickering faded as Aoife watched them meander toward the alley's exit, her head reeling. 'What the fresh hell just happened?' she wondered aloud, examining the business card in her hand. She hated to admit it, but Sherlock Holmes was right. She was going to take the job. No need to let him know just yet. She still needed to familiarize herself with these men if she was going to be working and living in such close proximity. Her da had taught her better than to run off and "shack up" with strange men she'd just met. And Sherlock Holmes was perhaps _the_ strangest man she'd ever met.

**A/N:** There you have it. I'm not sure where this story is going to go. I have an idea, but nothing concrete. Aoife sort of came out of nowhere. I was going to do a John-gets-kidnapped-by-Moriarty-and-Sherlock-has-to-rescue-him story, but that's been done to death. Stick with me, and this might be worth it.


End file.
